


Perfumed Letters

by Opalgirl



Category: Tortall - Pierce
Genre: F/M, General, Humor, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalgirl/pseuds/Opalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal has a lady friend. His knight-mistress is curious and Neal is vain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfumed Letters

**Author's Note:**

> The potential Neal and Alanna dynamic through his squire years has always struck me as hilarious. This came of it.

When perfumed letters and notes began to arrive for her squire, Alanna was suspicious. Every time one arrived, Neal became useless. But he never brought another woman into her company. Whoever he was courting, he was doing it out of her sight.

"Squire." She leaned on the doorframe of his room, seeing the young man in a state of disarray, an elegant note - from a lady, no doubt - held in one hand. Several tunics were set out and several more discarded on the floor.

Neal had the grace to flush. "Whatever does her ladyship desire to inflict upon me now?" He asked, tilting his nose into the air.

Alanna resisted the urge to cross the room and smack him, as she had hundreds of times. "Whoever she is, I think she's mad, but you shouldn't be moping around, waiting on an old lady like me. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself."

He grinned at her and bowed, obviously grateful. Then to maintain his dignity, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Your ladyship is too kind to a lowly squire like me."

Alanna rolled her eyes. How had _Baird_ produced such an infuriating son? "Queenscove?"

"Yes?"

"Fix your hair," she advised, reaching for the door. "Your lady has manners and grace, obviously." She indicated the note in his hand. "Especially if she writes to you so religiously."

"And I am but a lowly uncultured buffoon next to her." He sighed, wistfully as his hands went to his hair. "If only..."

"Queenscove?" She was _not_ going to let him dissolve into a romantic puddle. If she did, he would soon start quoting poetry to her at breakfast. She'd endured enough bad poetry during her own page years - it was time to stop this. He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She shut the door, shaking her head. At least she hadn't caught him writing poetry - yet.

 


End file.
